


and i felt the fever coming. [oh the wreckage follows]

by shenyanigan



Series: the shuwaverse. [1]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post canon, Selectively Mute Akira, Sickfic, Unreliable Narrator, akira is sick but is also a moron, kurusu akira pov, ok so there's like a lot of hurt and about //checks watch// 2.5 seconds of comfort and im real sorry, shuwa, slight akira whump but like. he did it to himself., the first chapter is mostly suffering, this went. a direction.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:33:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22794808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shenyanigan/pseuds/shenyanigan
Summary: Kurusu Akira has survived a lot over the past eighteen years of existence. A false assault charge. A police-sanctioned scopolamine overdose. Bringing a butter knife and twelve penis demons to a fight with god. Learning that yellow was definitely not a color that suited him, no matter what Ann and Yusuke tried to tell him (and no matter how much that gutted him, because damn, those dungarees were cute). He is, in Futaba’s words, “if the ‘I lived, bitch’ meme were a person.”So it comes as a bit of a shock that the last straw is acold, of all things.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Series: the shuwaverse. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1638793
Comments: 72
Kudos: 751





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> hi hello yes! is anyone surprised that my first fic for this fandom is a sickfic? i'm not. i eat hurt/comfort for breakfast.
> 
> a couple things! so this is kind of... loaded with my headcanons kfjks, many of which go a bit unexplained because this was not intended to be the first work in this universe, but it is because well. i don't know self restraint and it's my writing so. why not. the big thing that's important is: akira is selectively mute and uses shuwa (japanese sign language) to communicate. this has reasons that will... eventually be explained, probably in another fic, BUT! that's why akira uses sign for most of this. 
> 
> uh. if i think of other things i need to explain, i'll add them, but that's the big one!

So it goes like this: Akira starts his day like he would any other—with a quiet groan and a scrub of a hand over his face. He surveys the world around him with bleary eyes that can’t see for shit, because yeah, his friends all needled him to death that those dumb square chonkers he called glasses back in high school were fake up until the moment they put them on and realized they were sighted people’s drunk goggles. But he doesn’t need eyes to hear the static on the bulky silver box of a television he’d bought in second year, the one he’d left on again the night before. Nor does he need them to feel Morgana’s fur beneath his fingers, pressed atop his chest, nor to inhale the sweet musk of the—of the attic—

He sneezes. Which, that’s normal, given that Akira is human and humans do, in fact, sneeze sometimes. But then it happens again, and this one is louder, punchier, and he leans forward with the strength of it, face finding its way into his elbow, but not into respite because there’s a third coming, he can feel it, just. Sitting there.

Ahhhhh.

“Oi! Akira!” 

Morgana’s fur is raised, a black smudge Akira recognizes as a tail swishing impatiently as he settles into sitting at Akira’s side, miffed at his rude awakening. “What’s the big idea?” He says, scratching at his cute kitty face. “You got a cold or something?”

Akira shakes his head rather violently, because _no_ , he does not _get_ colds, thank you very much. He hasn’t been sick since he was nine years old, when he got a bad bout of strep from one of the other kids in his class whose mother wouldn’t let her stay home. Although shaking his head like that was probably a bad idea, given that the force with which he did it must whip his brain around his skull, if the pulsing _throb_ emanating from the left side of his face is anything to go by. But it’s barely four in the morning. Being alive is a bad idea at this time.

Besides, he doesn’t have time to be sick, even if it were true. Exams are coming—shit, exams are coming—and Lala’s needed several extra hands at the bar lately with the massive influx of tourists they’ve been getting since January (thanks, Olympic commission), and most importantly _,_ there’s the _thing_ this weekend and—he’s—oh, come on— 

Akira drags his arm across his stupidly itchy nose before letting it rest at his side, his hitching breath finally ceasing as whatever was irritating him must vanish. Exhaling with relief, he looks over at Morgana’s blobby figure, summoning a smirk to rest on his face as he starts signing. _I’m way too cool for a_ —

AH-CHOO.

God dammit.

☆☆☆

> **Fufufufutaba** (6:45): yoooooo. whats this i hear about a cold
> 
> **Fufufufutaba** (6:45): did u catch *another* bug?
> 
> **The Fresh Prince of Tokyo** (6:47): woah, have I turned you into an early bird? 
> 
> **Fufufufutaba** (6:48): you wish!!!! more like i havent slept yet 
> 
> **Fufufufutaba** (6:48): i was just planning to finish up a day of farming when seb said he wanted a slime farm so 
> 
> **Fufufufutaba** (6:49): who am i to deny him??? 
> 
> **The Fresh Prince of Tokyo** (6:52): your 2d boyfriend has you whipped
> 
> **Fufufufutaba** (6:53): nu-uh!!!! i like slimes anyways, theyre cool!!!!
> 
> **The Fresh Prince of Tokyo** (6:54): right. 
> 
> **The Fresh Prince of Tokyo** (6:54): it’s not like he’s your wallpaper or anything
> 
> **Fufufufutaba** (6:55): listen mister
> 
> **Fufufufutaba** (6:55): sebastian stardewvalley is funny n smart n nice n
> 
> **Fufufufutaba** (6:55): WAIT A MINUTE
> 
> **Fufufufutaba** (6:55): U CHEAP BASTARD, UR DISTRACTING ME WITH HUSBAND THOUGHTS!!!
> 
> **Fufufufutaba** (6:56): u never answered my question!!!!
> 
> **The Fresh Prince of Tokyo** (6:58): what question?
> 
> **Fufufufutaba** (6:58): dont play dumb!!!! morgana is sulking!!!! 
> 
> **The Fresh Prince of Tokyo** (6:59): he’s just upset I didn’t bring him along today.
> 
> **Fufufufutaba** (7:01): hes protes  
>  ****
> 
> **Fufufufutaba** (7:01): OW
> 
> **Fufufufutaba** (7:02): OK OK YEESH QUIT USING ME AS A BEDPOST  
>  ****
> 
> **Fufufufutaba** (7:03): “u were only supposed to take ur temp and then come back to bed!!!!”
> 
> **Fufufufutaba** (7:04): akira did u lie to our cat
> 
> **The Fresh Prince of Tokyo** (7:07): not a cat
> 
> **Fufufufutaba** (7:07): oh my GOD ur the WORST
> 
> **Fufufufutaba** (7:15): this is going nowhere so whatevs!!!! i trust u but like. dont die b4 2nite!!! 
> 
> **Fufufufutaba** (7:16): ill be really sad without my favorite key item
> 
> **The Fresh Prince of Tokyo** (7:17): roger dodger.
> 
> **Fufufufutaba** (7:18): nerd :P
> 
> **Fufufufutaba** (7:21): c u l8r!!! 

He really is fine, is the thing.

The sneezing seems to have subsided at least a little, which is great, because Akira _hates_ blowing his nose about as much as he hates feeling snot drip down his face. But it’s left one _hell_ of a headache in its wake. And two very inflamed nostrils, insufficient for breathing purposes. It’s annoying, for sure, the way he can feel his heartbeat in his cheekbones, but it’s not _ill_. 

Morgana was… unconvinced of that fact, but what did he know? He’s a cat and can be easily distracted with fresh fish and the false promise that Akira is just going downstairs to check his temperature in the cafe bathroom, and yes that means he has to be fully dressed—wouldn’t want to scandalize the one regular Sojiro has, would we? Considering the man lets him live rent-free in the attic above and all.

Akira swipes a hand across his face, resting his head against the cool glass window of the packed train because he miraculously slid into not just a seat, but a premiere forward-facing _window_ seat. Normally, he might consider skipping—not because he’s actually sick, mind, but because going to class mildly inconvenienced sucks—but he’s already got plans to skip tomorrow. 

The Former Phantom Thieves (or FPT for short, as Futaba insisted they call themselves) were busy little bees these days, what with all their lives taking off and everything. They kept in touch, for sure, and met up in pairs where possible, but all of them meeting in one place at the same time, like in the old days? Please. This week, though, the stars had aligned: Ann was back in the city after her first solo shoot abroad, and Haru had finished up the final touches on her first small-town cafe in Chugoku, and with those two’s crazy schedules crossing paths for more than five seconds, everyone else made theirs follow suit. Akira couldn’t justify missing today _and_ tomorrow’s seminar, even if he wanted to; Makoto would give him an earful on the spot. As would Goro. Because he’s coming, too.

There’s a scuffling over the loudspeaker, and words _do_ follow but… well, it’s hard to understand Tokyo train speakers, see? They spent all their budget on the high speed rails, they forgot about replacing the audio system from the 90’s that manages to be both loud _and_ unintelligible simultaneously. Akira had never gotten used to that, even though he moved back to the city the second he could. And they’re even more watery today, for some reason, like there’s a short in the cable or the train officer’s got a mouth full of crackers that he’s trying to speak through, spitting soggy white crumbs all over the mic. 

“—next stop—Nishi-Was—” the wet crackles spray through the cabin in fits and starts. “—ishi-Waseda—”

Ah, that’s him. 

Akira shuffles, putting himself back together, dragging his head away from the window. It’s heavy, rolling on his neck, and it aches—everything just _aches_ —to move, but he supposes that’s what he gets for daydreaming and pressing himself to the wall that way. He sighs.

Goro is coming today. Something weird and crawly sits in the emptiness of his stomach, clawing at his insides as the train doors open. It’s not as if he hasn’t seen Goro in a while; on the contrary, they met last week for lunch, because they’re… dating now. Which is new. And good. 

Really, really good. 

Plus, Goro has been talking to the others, much more than he used to, now that he and Haru have found a foothold with each other. Akira didn’t know the details, but Goro had definitely let slip an affectionately-lilted “Futaba” last they were chatting about the glory days of the Phantom Thieves, among other things. His snide “Sakamoto”s have even gotten a little softer around the edges, although if Akira said anything about it, he’s sure Goro would deny it immediately with some snarky, “As if I could stomach being in a room with that much bleach.” 

That doesn’t matter, though—the point is, Goro’s been talking to the others, and maybe he’d let on that he was interested in hanging out with the group again, if they were up for it, and _that_ knowledge sort of snowballed into Akira asking the group chat if they’d be up for a plus one at this Friday-Saturday’s FPT shenanigans (which, he never did figure out what they were doing _,_ did he? He’s gonna have to search through the chat, to see what exactly they’d decided). And everyone was okay with it. More than okay with it, actually. Which would be a little suspicious, if he’d had a chance to think on it, but between school and Lala’s, he’s barely had much time to think outside the occasional text conversation, let alone dissect the sudden weirdness in the group chat.

Whatever. It doesn’t really matter now, because this Friday is now today, and sure, Goro’s pride won’t let him admit that he’s nervous, but that’s what Akira’s for: to read between the lines of Goro’s clipped texts and plastic smiles and see the skittish, anxious boy beneath them. 

(More than that, this has been the moment Akira’s been waiting for for _years_. Since that moment in Shido’s palace, when Akira almost lost him, and then the moments after, when he _did_ , and then after that when he had to make choice after choice, when it felt like he was going to be torn apart between the many loves in his life— _was_ torn apart, even, and no mask could salvage the wreckage. All he’s wanted is for all these strings in his heart to stop trying so hard to cut one another, and it’s _finally_ happening, however slow that process has been, and he won’t miss it for the world.)

Akira clears his throat a few times, walking in an effortlessly straight line towards Waseda University. If he narrowly misses several strangers from losing his balance, well, who’s to say? 

☆☆☆

Comparative Kantian Theory goes off without a hitch. Mostly.

Akira’s familiar with most of the material at some level already, because yeah, Futaba’s not wrong to call him a nerd, given that he’s majoring in global philosophy with a lean towards ethical theory. But the class itself has a nice structure: small, which is rare for Waseda (although not for moral philosophy), with a professor he likes at the front. It helps that she knows shuwa, too, and verbalizes what he says for him. Plus, he’s buddies with at least half the class—they’d all been _very_ interested in his notes after the first papers came back—which makes skipping tomorrow even easier than he’d anticipated, since everyone was willing to give him their notes.

That last part, though. Therein lies the hitch: everyone was more than willing to give up their notes after Akira spent half of class hacking up his left lung.

Akira leans back, resting his head on the wall outside his classroom as he tries to suppress another coughing fit through sheer willpower. It fails, unsurprisingly, a little _ah-he-hem_ turning into a little cough into a big one into a very loud succession of increasingly unpleasant, scraping noises that have him crumpling in on himself and clutching at his hollow chest. 

Damn. He’d take the sneezing over this. 

Back against the wall again, he squeezes his eyes shut as the burning ache spreading through his throat reverberates in throbs inside his skull. He has some medicine stashed somewhere in his bag: some Takemedics leftover at the bottom somewhere, and a whole bottle of Bufferin, too, because old habits die hard, even if most the FPT ladies aren’t around him 24/7 anymore. But he’d run out of the fruity throat lozenges Sojiro was always sneaking into his bag a while ago, because they might not be candy, but they tasted like it, and Akira’s been on a sweet kick this autumn. It _is_ the month of Halloween and all. Maybe he could go to the convenience store? There was one a short walk from here, on his way to the station anyways. They’d probably have a mask, too. _Not_ that he was sick, but… y’know. Just in case.

Mmm, but all these plans require _movement_ , and that’s the real challenge. Maybe he could just… wait here for a while instead. Just stand. With his eyes closed. Let his mind drift, and...

“Here, Akira.” 

Something cold and plasticky finds its way into his hands. A water bottle. Then, a glance up. Suzui Shiho. The only one of his friends that ended up at Waseda, too, although she was going for psychology.

Bleary-eyed as he knows he looks, Akira nods a thanks to her, cool water quenching a little of the burn on its way down his throat. He doesn’t miss the way her warm smile flags a little the more she examines him, worry filtering into her eyes. His stomach roils. “I heard from Amada-kun that you didn’t look well in seminar this morning. Are you alright?” 

_Yes_. His hands move automatically, emphatically even, his head along with it. _Just a cough_.

The way her mouth scrunches says she’s unimpressed with his response, but she has the graciousness to be at least a little subtle about it. “I’m not so sure,” she pauses after, as if she’s chewing over her next statement and whether she should say it or not. “Look, I’ll call Ann; I know you guys have the pa—p-p-plans! Plans for the weekend and everything, but—”

No. Akira is already shaking his head like a dog out of the bath before she even finishes her sentence. _I’m fine._ They’ve been planning this for a month now; before Goro had been an addition, before the weirdness, before all of that, this was supposed to be theirs. _All_ of theirs. Akira wasn’t about to ruin it over something as stupid as what was—if anything—a minor cold.

_Ann has to leave for another shoot next week, right?_

Shiho bites her lip. There’s more to what she wants to say, a conflict humming behind her eyes. “Yeah, but—”

Akira cuts her off with a raised hand and another shake of his head, disregarding the aching that’s started shooting up his neck from the motion. _Then I’ll be fine. It sounds worse than it is anyways_. 

Shiho gives him a long, hard look. Then an equally long, hard sigh. “You’re just like her, y’know?” A smile plays at her lips. 

_What?_ And Akira grins, because finally, something easy and familiar. _My dashing good looks and impeccable charm_?

That gets a little laugh out of Shiho, a melodious one he’s happy to say he’s grown used to hearing. “Your stubbornness.”

Well. Can’t argue with that one. He signs as much, warmth settling inside him. Recovery has been a slow, winding process for all of them, but she’s had one of the rougher journeys. It’s good to see her laugh.

She grows quiet, though, even more so now than before, and god he just. He hates this. The way she needles at her lip with her teeth, then her thumb with her index fingernail, the way her shoulders tense and dark clouds hover in her brown eyes. She doesn’t _need_ to worry, is the thing, and he knows it. Even if he were sick—which he’s not, he’s really not, everything always sounds worse on him, he swears—it’s not her burden to bear. It isn’t anybody’s. He doesn’t need to be taken care of; that’s not his role in other people’s lives.

 _Please don’t worry about me_ . He signs. _Seriously. I’m fine._

She takes a deep, resigned breath. “Okay, if you say so…” she still picks at the skin on her thumb. He wishes he could reach out, hold her hand, but he knows better. Not with her. “But Akira, I really think you should tell Ann.”

No. That would be worse. Ann’s eyes all filled with sadness that she’d hide away, because this was her one weekend off and instead of getting to hang out with everyone, she’d be saddled with the weight of Akira’s “illness”. She’d take it to heart, too, looking after him, because she’s too kind for her own good sometimes, and then she’d really lose out. _No_.

“Tell _someone_ then.” 

Who? Who could he possibly tell that it wouldn’t hurt? Haru and Makoto would be the same as Ann, kind and helpful, but today is meant just as much as a break for them as it is for everyone else; he can’t saddle either of them with the responsibility of keeping an eye on him. Morgana already suspects, and he’s told Futaba, but the both of them need as much energy as they can for the meetup. Yusuke, bless him, is a beautiful soul who is also a disaster and would more than likely get sick just from standing next to Akira, even though he doesn’t have anything. Ryuji would… of course he’d be gung-ho to help, he always is, but he’d get that sad look in his eye, too, because he feels so much more than he lets on, worry and fear cut him deeper than anyone. And Goro’s stressed enough as it is, with this being his first big meeting with the whole group in what? Nearly a year?

But Shiho has this look in her eye, this troubled, aging mahogany tree that’s doing its best in a storm, and he just. He can’t tell her no. _Okay._ He signs, and she sighs with relief. _Just… let me tell them, okay?_

Her smile is a radiant _beam_ with a little nudge of mischief on the end. “Mmmm… can I really trust you?” She glances down at her watch, then double takes. “Oh, yikes, I have to go; I’m gonna be late for chemistry, ugh,” she takes a minute to chew again, before she lightly takes one of Akira’s wrists in her hand. Squeezes. “Please take care of yourself, okay? I know the others will understand.”

Shiho walks away after that, her figure winding in and out of the crowd in the halls. Akira’s hands burn from the lies.

☆☆☆

The plan had been simple. Meet Goro at Shibuya station at 14:00ish. Check—sort of. Still waiting for the Goro part of that. Head to Leblanc after. Then figure out what exactly the group had in mind. He hadn’t been able to parse from the group chat what was going on: a lot of the older messages got deleted because he still can’t afford to get a phone that doesn’t automatically delete his texts when he has too many. Plus, for some reason, there were several messages that were just straight up deleted in the middle, which he imagines are God Mod Futaba’s doing. 

Not that any of that _really_ matters, because the pulsing currently keeping time in his head has made it absolutely clear that if Akira would like to concentrate on anything other than the backs of his eyelids, he can get bent. 

Akira takes the risk a blind sip of water entails, and comes out successful, a dribble of coolness salving his throat. _This_ is why he hates coughing; the act itself was annoying, but the debilitating migraine it caused after? The one that no matter how many drugs he shovelled into his system wouldn’t go away? Way worse.

He sighs, cracking his eyes open. Thankfully, the convenience store on the way over had the lozenges Akira liked, so he’s been able to mitigate the coughing a smidge, which has kept it from worsening. He’d managed to scout out the shadiest spot in the Shibuya underground tunnel, too, so there wasn’t an immediate stab of pain at his temples as he looked around, but. This was the kind of headache a nap could fix with ease, but he doesn’t have _time_ for a nap, not when he’s meeting—

“Hello.”

Ah, speak of the devil. Shit. 

Akira straightens up against the railing where he had been leaning, clenching both teeth and fist in a futile attempt to keep the pain off his face as Goro approaches. _Hiya_ , he signs with his open hand, and oh. Oh wow.

So Goro is always stunning. Akira might be this close to legally blind without his glasses, but even that couldn’t stop him from seeing Goro’s blurry radiance in the mornings, all messy splotches of cherrywood and amber spread on the plain white canvas of Akira’s mattress. But there’s something about Goro in his casuals that Akira would never get used to. The outfit is well-put together: white jeans, worn brown coat. Emerald turtleneck, cable knit sweater, the one Akira hadn’t _not_ picked out when he was out once because he knew it would bring out those russet eyes. But his hair is thrown in a messy pony, little tendrils falling out of it like he hadn’t been very firm with it when he pulled it back, and it does _things_ to Akira. 

Dizzying things. Was he this woozy before?

He’s happy now, for a plethora of reasons, that no one expects him to talk.

Goro’s eyebrows furrow, head cocking to the side as a gloved hand rests on his hip. “Why are you wearing a mask?”

Mask? What mask? Akira blinks. They hadn’t suddenly transported to the Metaverse again, had they? There’d be no way—Mementos was—oh. Oh right. He’d bought a sick mask at the convenience store. 

His brain is _really_ out of sorts right now. 

_Something going around at Waseda._ He plays with the plastic strings resting on his ears. _Didn’t want to catch it_. 

Goro smirks. “Really? I thought you had, in your words, an ‘immune system of steel.’” 

Akira tries to shrug as nonchalantly as he can manage. He did say that, because it was _true_ , but. _You can never be too careful_.

Goro doesn’t buy it, judging by the way he narrows his eyes, but he doesn’t comment, which is a godsend. Instead, he pulls his sleeve up and, not unlike Shiho earlier, gawks at his watch. “Our train should be here any minute,” he says, and Akira swears the hand he runs through his bangs splits in two. “We should go.” 

Go where? Akira almost asks it out loud until he remembers. Cafe Leblanc. Meeting. Friends. Right. Right, right, right. He pushes himself off the wall, stumbling almost immediately as the world seesaws right in front of him, his body nearly going with it. Goro is the only reason he doesn’t, a strong grip catching his shoulders on either side. “Easy,” Goro says, soft, and it’s such a soothing sound in his ear which, now that he’s thinking about it, is rather clogged. “You’re a bit clumsy today. Don’t tell me you already caught the bug?”

Akira bites his lip, thankful for the mask he’d forgotten about again. You should tell him, Shiho had said, or tell _someone_ , rather, but it _wasn’t_ a big deal, and Goro would _make_ it a big deal. Not in a histrionic sort of way, necessarily, but he’d still worry about it, and worrying was more than too much. Goro’s already tugging at the edge of his sweater, worry lines already embedding in his forehead, all those nervous ticks Akira’s come to know that surely have to be because they’re meeting the others soon. Akira can’t—no, he won’t add more to Goro’s plate. He just needs to sit down. Maybe take a little power nap. And he could do that on the train.

Akira shakes his head, brain rattling with the motion. He’ll be fine.

☆☆☆

So. About that whole “fine” thing.

The train to Yongen-Jaga is a blur, and when Akira says blur, he means a literal _blur_. Half of it was spent with his eyes closed, and the other half was trying to decipher why every shape around him had a doppelganger despite the fact that he was still wearing his glasses—and yes, he checked. Several times, just to be safe. 

Moreover, the train had been _freezing_ somehow, which made no sense; sure, it wasn’t packed like a sardine tin the way it normally was during rush hour, but there weren’t an insignificant number of people on board. Plus, Akira knows the trains are heated _and_ , since Goro and Akira managed to find a pair of seats, there was at least one decently warm human body that was right next to him. Yet, Akira was so cold his _teeth_ were chattering. By the end, his shivers were so violent, they were almost visible. Almost. Akira was leaned far enough away from Goro that he _somehow_ managed to get away with that _and_ the several quiet coughing fits he’d had; really, he had Goro’s phone to thank for it. He’d been IMing someone pretty much nonstop since they got on board, which had also stopped him from trying to make conversation the way he sometimes would when they were traveling. Another victory for Akira, because he’s not sure he would have been capable of comprehending a single word from Goro that entire time.

When they get off the train, Akira slips his hand into Goro’s and laces their fingers together. It startles him, but he doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t have to: the flush that travels up his neck is a statement all on its own. Akira smiles. He wishes he could paint rooms in that color red. Or drown in it. It would be a fun thing to do, wouldn’t it? Fill a bath with a color so lively, so pretty, and let him flow through him like osmosis.

What even are thoughts anymore?

Goro clears his throat. “So,” he says, and they stop walking. Akira looks up and around: oh. They’re at Leblanc now. Had they really been walking that long? He didn’t notice that they’d even gotten out of the station. “Were you going to tell me it was your birthday?”

Huh?

Akira apparently says this out loud, because Goro jumps out of his skin, the way he always does when Akira actually speaks and he’s not ready for it. He doesn’t really know _why_ he’d say something now, but sometimes the mental block just disappears like that. Or maybe it has something to do with how much blurrier his vision is getting. 

Talking was a very bad idea, though, because a word coming out of his throat leads to a cough. And then another cough, and another one, and god, it’s like there’s a hammer just smacking him again and again, clanging in his chest and smashing at his brain and he just—

Several things happen at once. One: in the midst of Akira’s coughing fit, Goro got closer. A lot closer. With Akira crunched in like this, he’s also a lot taller. Which is a fun observation. 

“Akira, are you—” 

Two: the door to Leblanc opens and now Ryuji? Yeah, spiky. Blonde. Muscles. Ryuji’s here. He’s saying words. Words that Akira could sort of comprehend—they’re Japanese words. Full sentences. Something about hurrying up. Something about Ann and biting. Something that must startle Goro, because his presence near Akira fades just a little. Turns in a different direction.

“—Sakamoto—something’s not right—”

Three: the doubleness of Akira’s vision starts to fade, replaced by thick black spots. He tries to take another breath, but air claws at his lungs, making his exhale another cough. A weak one. His legs are buckling beneath his weight. And then they break completely, his body smacking into the pavement.

Okay. So he might be a _little_ sick.


	2. ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Akechi Goro doesn’t like surprises. They’re loud, they’re messy. They’re a headache to plan, and even more so to keep a secret (you try infiltrating a team of metaphysical thieves once and find out they found you out because of fucking pancakes). Moreover, their intent in life is to be spontaneous in such a way that they spark a genuine reaction, a verisimilitude that he has never wanted to see in others nor in himself. Specifically never in himself. However, he, like anyone, can make exceptions. 
> 
> He can. But carrying his collapsed boyfriend to said boyfriend’s back alley clinician, see. 
> 
> That was not supposed to be the surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello hello i am SO sorry this took me so long to write........ kdjksdj i had some assignments that i needed to finish because u kno. degree program and such. 
> 
> this chapter comes courtesy of ur local hero @relationshipcrimes coming into my inbox and adulting my baby writer ass into figuring out what i'm doing. i think i have a clearer idea of where this is all headed....... and i dont have any more assignments up and coming so. fingers crossed! that the next chapter takes less time!!!
> 
> also hi big disclaimer i started this WAY before coronavirus was cool kdshfskjskjs (this is a joke, plz stay safe everyone)
> 
> ((this chapter also contains some brief mentions of blood))

Akechi Goro doesn’t like surprises. They’re loud, they’re messy. They’re a headache to plan, and even more so to keep a secret (you try infiltrating a team of metaphysical thieves once and find out they found you out because of fucking _pancakes_ ). Moreover, their intent in life is to be spontaneous in such a way that they spark a genuine reaction, a verisimilitude that he has never wanted to see in others nor in himself. Specifically _never_ in himself. However, he, like anyone, can make exceptions.

He _can_. But.

_It’s funny the way certain things sound alike. Wind chimes sound like doorbells in the right rooms. Television static is the city boy’s ocean wave, lulling him to sleep at night. When a body collapses, it doesn’t sound like one dull thud, but the soft beginning of an avalanche: one slump turning to a patter turning to a whole host of crushing, creaking sounds that indicate there is damage somewhere, although you can’t see it yet._

_One minute, Akira is upright, coughing his lungs out, and Goro is trying to juggle him and Sakamoto and this stupid fucking party, and the next, he’s an avalanche of sound, eating shit on the pavement. Still. Eerily so._

_Akira?_

But carrying his collapsed boyfriend to said boyfriend’s back alley clinician, see, _that_ was not supposed to be the surprise.

_Blood is a sight he used to be used to. He used to like the color red, used to like the way it oozed at the edges. Spilling. Crawling. Closer, closer._

That was not on today—October 12th’s—agenda.

_This is how your “justice” ends._

_Remember that?_

Let’s go back to the beginning, though, shall we? What _was_ on today’s agenda? Well.

☆☆☆

Goro had been halfway through _The Sorrows of Young Werther_ when the world all but caved in.

Or at least, that’s what you’d have thought happened given the shrill gasp that interrupted yet another grotesquely idyllic portrait of the German countryside.

“Oh. My. God.”

Takamaki Ann had sat across from him in a little Parisian bistro chair, legs crossed, jaw slack, staring at a phone that must have been near-cracking in her two-handed grip. Then, her gaze met his, a shock of electric blue. “Oh my god.”

Goro sipped his tea. “Care to share?”

“Gorg.”

“Yes, Ann, that is the hideous nickname you settled on for me.”

Ann put her phone on the table, pressed her hands to laquered wood, and uttered the bombshell: “We don’t know Akira’s birthday.”

Goro had had to sit with that for a minute, because what? “Excuse me?”

“His birthday. We don’t know when he was born.”

“I do know what birthdays are,” he said, because bitchiness is his first language, Japanese his second. Condescension just so happens to be his third, so he’d scoffed at her and her ridiculous expression. “And you don’t know his birthday?”

Ann pouted at that, arms folding over her chest. “What, and you do?”

Of course he did. “Of course I do,” he’d said, all smiles as he’d settled back in his chair. Because of course. Akira knew his birthday—had given Goro a beautiful bracelet for it, in fact. Among other things. Which he needed to pay him back for. And could do so, because he knew the day at which that would be appropriate. Like White Day to Valentine’s. Goro is a good boyfriend.

“It’s…”

Goro had asked. Of course he did. Goro was not self-centered enough that he would receive a gift from a person he once put a bullet into without at least asking for the day at which he could return the favor. Plus, who could memorize dates better than Goro? Somehow he knew all of the _other_ Phantom Thieves’ respective birthdays, simply because he saw them on Akira’s calendar. Not because he cared. He bought them gifts, too, since that was the custom and Goro is blunt, not rude. What was it, a mere month ago now, that he’d bestowed the gift of a model pirate ship on Sakamoto? Had he added an executioner’s noose on the side as a private joke that only he had found funny? Possibly. But he certainly gave it to him on July fucking 3rd, because that was Sakamoto Ryuji’s birthday.

Goro knew. He _must_ have known.

...right?

Ann must have been watching the inevitable face journey Goro had as his confidence turned to doubt, then indignation, before finally settling on disgust with himself, because she’d had the audacity to laugh. “See! You don’t know, either!”

“I—” Goro’s cheeks had puffed with air, lips folding in, because god he had wanted to argue but. She was right. Goro hadn’t known, and it wasn’t because he forgot: there were few things that mattered to him the way Akira did, for some ungodly reason, and that meant he remembered everything. Akira only used Muji pens. He took his coffee black, preferred a dark roast—single origin, usually, but not always, Latin American. He was a squirrel when it came to fond memories, stuffing them into every nook and cranny he could get his hands on, as if every scrap of nostalgia was something precious and life-giving and scarce.

There was only one explanation.

“He never told me,” Goro had said. The words had been foreign on his tongue, and his eyes furrowed as he digested the sound. “Why would he…?”

“He never told any of us,” Ann had replied when he didn’t finish his question, all traces of humor lost from her voice. She was playing with the neon pink silicone straw stuffed into her iced coffee, her finger running along the indentions her teeth had left; she liked to chew on straws when she drank anything cold, a fact he found deeply, deeply disturbing the first time they met at this cafe. Goro gave her the silicone straw party pack for a reason. _Save the turtles_ , he’d said, and she’d thrown her arms around him in delight. More like save his ear drums from the grating, disgusting sound of smacking plastic, but.

“Well,” said Ann, letting out a little puff of air through her nose. “We’re just going to have to figure it out, then!”

“Indeed,” he’d replied, something still stirring in his gut. He didn’t even trust Goro with his _birthday_. “Where shall we start?”

Ann had looked up the way she always does in thought, pink nails drumming on the table. “What do you think his western zodiac sign is?”

Barely a pause passed between them before their eyes met again, mouths opening at the same time:

“Libra.”

☆☆☆

Thus, one thing led to another led to Goro and Ann starting an “Akira is a lying liar who lies” group chat (Ann is really piss poor at naming things) with all the former Phantom Thieves minus the man of honor, of course, and they spent an annoyingly long time trying to parse out when he was born through astrological means only for Futaba to enter the conversation and immediately tell them.

[ **Floof!** (16:00): Aki-chan _does_ seem like a cat sometimes. Doesn’t he, Akechi-kun?  
**(Gor)d(o)n Ramsey** (16:00): I fail to see the relevance of that to this conversation, Okumura.  
**Floof!** (16:00): (.❛ ᴗ ❛.)  
**(Gor)d(o)n Ramsey** (16:00): Do not Kaomoji me.  
**Fufufufutaba** (16:02): oct 13  
**(Gor)d(o)n Ramsey** (16:02): Excuse me?  
**Fufufufutaba** (16:03): akiras bday. yall didnt kno?  
**what the FUCK is up kyle** (16:03): no!!!!!!!! how u kno??????  
**Fufufufutaba** (16:04): im god.  
**what the FUCK is up kyle** (16:04): :/  
**The Krusty Krab** (16:05): A reasonable explanation.  
**Fufufufutaba** (16:05): nah but rly, i knew it from sleuthing  
**Fufufufutaba** (16:05): way back when akira first moved here  
**Fufufufutaba** (16:06): didnt want to have an actual murderer in the cafe and all  
**Fufufufutaba** (16:06): *cough cough*  
**(Gor)d(o)n Ramsey** (16:06): …  
**Fufufufutaba** (16:06): but yeah me n sojiro threw him a lil smth that year  
**Fufufufutaba** (16:07): he wouldnt let us do much tho. no presents, no cake  
**Fufufufutaba** (16:07): we ignored him on both counts  
**Fufufufutaba** (16:07): wouldnt let me invite yall either  
**Fufufufutaba** (16:08): physically stopped me on that one  
**Maki-Maki** (16:09): And this didn’t strike you as suspicious?  
**Fufufufutaba** (16:09): ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ idk!!! hes a secretive snail man!!!  
**Fufufufutaba** (16:10): a rly charismatic, convincing secretive snail man]

They all came to the same conclusion: throw Akira the best fucking party ever to spite him for hiding his birthday from them. The agenda was simple: While he was in class, put together a magician-themed birthday party at Leblanc. Complete with very dignified and, dare Goro say, fun costumes. Then wait for Akira to come home, and give him a good surprise. Things got a little complicated when Akira asked the group if they would be willing to let Goro join the “regular hangout” they had told him they were planning to explain the other Phantom Thieves being in town again—Goro’s full assimilation into the group, however reluctant it had been, was also supposed to be a surprise. But they had worked around that, adding an option on the agenda where Goro picked Akira up from the station and made sure the sneaky devil got to the cafe none the wiser. A terrifying option, one that Goro vehemently disagreed with at first because, again, which of them had cocked up two years worth of careful planning after _one_ meeting with Akira, but. Unfortunately, he was not given choice in the matter, so he swallowed his anxieties anyways.

(Goro’s personal agenda also included whisking Akira away for… other festivities. It _was_ his birthday. And Goro still owed him from his own birthday—Akira would argue that isn’t how it worked, but Goro was sure the good fucking Akira was getting would quell any complaints.)

But then—

_“Akira!”_

_Someone says that. Someone’s knees skid to the ground, skinning on the pavement. Someone flips ~~the body~~ the boy over on his back. Someone cradles him without thinking. Someone feels his forehead with the back of a gloved hand. Someone knows it’s hot to the touch even through the fabric. So hot. Too hot._

_It takes a moment for it to register that a too hot body is still a live one. That a dead body doesn’t breathe so raggedly, nor do its hands come to find those that are on his face, weak, shaky fingers covering weak, shaky fingers._

_There is no blood._

_“I…I’m fi—”_

_It takes another moment still to register that the someone is Goro. His teeth grit so hard they hurt. “Don’t,” he says, gathering up his stupid boy in his arms. “Just. Don’t.”_

—Akira _collapsed_. One minute, he was standing next to Goro, their fingers intertwined, and Goro had _suspected_ from the start something was off when he’d seen Akira wearing that mask, but he’d been so nervous about not wrecking this dumb fucking surprise, he’d brushed it off.

(Which was so stupid, because brash overconfidence in the most inconsequential of areas was Akira’s forte—his shoddy immune system being one of them. Despite the fact that Akira spent basically the last month functioning with a mild cold, he’d refused to admit he could possibly be sick, let alone take the precaution of wearing a flu mask. It had driven Goro up a fucking wall.)

And then the next, Akira was smacking the ground, imagined blood pooling beneath his head like a bottle of wine had cracked on the pavement.

Is he being a little dramatic? Possibly.

Goro pinches the bridge of his nose, slumping a little where he’s seated, the maroon cushion on his back doing nothing to comfort the crawling in his stomach. Now, Akira’s somewhere in the bowels of Dr. Takemi’s office, getting all sorts of tests run on his head where he smashed it on the fucking _concrete_ (he’s stupid, he’s so fucking stupid, Goro can barely breathe if he thinks too hard), but the way he’d quaked in Goro’s hold remains in the phantom shivers reverberating in his arms.

The rest of the party planning crew plus Sakura, who had closed up shop the moment he saw Akira on the ground, have scattered themselves about the lobby, some taking up residence beside him on the sofa, while others occupy the identical one on the other wall. There’s a tight atmosphere about all of them, a tension hanging so thick in the air, it’s like honey in the lungs—a feeling unhelped by the copious amounts of hairspray and glitter that cling to everyone’s respective magician costumes. None, however, are pulled so taut as Futaba’s, who paces the length of the teensy lobby in her white bunny fursuit with slow, thunking steps, pawed hands traipsing through her bright red hair.

Niijima Jr. is the one who finally breaks the silence. Or tries. “Futa—”

“I knew he was sick.”

She says it so quietly, and yet it shatters something awful in the room, her voice skittering on the floor like stray pieces of glass.

“I—Morgana told me. Earlier, I mean, he came over like, early-early, all pouty and stuff—”

There’s a rustling from inside of Okumura’s bag, a very distinct, kitten-like, “Hey!” coming from the opening.

“—and like told me Akira was sick and being stubborn,” she gulps down some air a little too fast, her hair starting to tangle from her ministrations. “I asked him about it, but he, y’know! The Akira thing! Where he gives you a nonanswer and somehow you’re okay with it because he has that big brother aura,” she wrings her hands helplessly, knotted hair flying out around her. “He did that.”

If Goro had a hundred yen for everytime Akira had finagled his way out of a genuinely harmless question that required of him a personal answer, he’d be able to afford rent for the rest of the year. Probably the year after, too. And judging by the faces of the clinic lobby motley crew, they’d all been subject to the living embodiment of frustration that was Kurusu Akira.

“Akira-senpai… he’s been catching cold a lot lately, hasn’t he?” Yoshizawa pipes up, when it seems that no one else is willing to speak. Ann is the first one to react, her hair bouncing with her nod, sprinkling glitter all over her lap.

“Shiho’s been keeping me updated while I was in America and stuff,” she twirls a lock of her hair, tugging it a little as it curls round her finger. “One of their mutual classmates says he’s been really, like, sniffly and out of it for a couple weeks? She was texting me earlier today that she was going to talk to him, but I never got to hear about what; she has back-to-back classes in the afternoon,” she says. “I’m guessing it was this.”

“He’s been with Lala’s since September because she needs the help, but even she sent him home yesterday. Said he looked pale.” Sakura sighs, leaning back into the corner he’s holed himself up in. “That goddamn kid. He’s going to work himself to death.”

_Hot bodies are live ones. Hot bodies are live ones. Hot bodies are live ones. This body is alive. Its chest rises and falls the way chests should. Its heartbeat is palpable, reverberating in Goro’s bones. Its eyes may be half-open, but there is light inside them, light that would not be there if life were not aflame. This body is alive._

_Stop panicking._

_Goro doesn’t think about the way it looks when he stands, this hot live body curled up against his chest. He only knows he can feel the proof of life hovering against the skin of his neck, and he needs that so much right now._

Goro’s fists clench on his thighs. This is so fucking ridiculous; Goro _knows_ Akira has a penchant for little illnesses. As good of a cook as he is, as good of a _cleaner_ as he is, when things get busy, the first thing to suffer is self-care. But it’s always just been little things. He’d get a tiny cold or come down with a mild fever for a day, but he’d sleep it off and the next day, he’d be mostly fine. Which, not that that ever stopped Goro from worrying, because _nothing_ could stop that, especially considering the hill he’d chosen to die on was a boy who once did a “no heals” run through Mementos. He’d just had to learn to ignore the crawling in his stomach to survive.

His nails dig deep in his palms. Mistake. Mistake. What a huge fucking mistake. If he had just—if Goro had been paying more attention last week at lunch, if he hadn’t been so fucking wrapped up in preparations for _this_ week that he’d actually had a chance to see Akira before today, he would have known. He would have realized, he could have—he might have—

A hand tentatively brushes one of his knuckles. Pale fingers. Pretty nails. A flower ring. Okumura. “Akechi-kun,” she has the good grace to whisper, “are you alright?”

No. Yes. Does it matter? Goro wants to bat her hand away. He doesn’t need comfort. He doesn’t.

“Thanks for your patience.”

Dr. Takemi is not a particularly tall woman, but she does know how to take up space. Clipboard in the crook of her arm, back straight, her sharp eyes scan the room full of faces with a devastating nonchalance. Goro’s eye twitches. Say something. “The exam room is a little small, so who wants to come back and collect him?”

Goro’s already standing before she finishes. “I’ll go.”

If there is any sort of dissent in the room, Goro could not care less about it. Dr. Takemi gives him an up and down look, scrutiny in her gaze like she’s digging her brain for something, and god, does he not have the fucking patience for this.

“Does something about me hold more interest than your patient, Doctor?” he says, because he can’t help it. Is it bitchy? A little, but.

Somehow, that earns him a smile. “So you’re the boyfriend I’ve heard so much about,” she says, and maybe some other time, in another context, that kind of thing would be warming. Or alarming. Probably warming _and_ alarming. But Goro’s fists are curling into themselves at his sides, and his heart is beating so fast his breathing is about to go with it, and—

“Said boyfriend is very interested in confirming his other half is not concussed or dying. So if you wouldn’t mind?”

“Is he always this dramatic?” The doctor replies, and really, it’s good to know that Akira just attracts bitchy and it isn’t solely a Goro thing, but simultaneously, he does not have the patience for this. The bite he’s had on his tongue is halfway gone when a calm, steady voice cuts him off, matching the steady hand that’s settling on Goro’s shoulder.

“Think we’re all a bit worried, Doc,” Sakura’s grip is firm and warm, and it makes him seem so much taller than Goro, even if he’s a head shorter. Goro’s stomach roils. It’s something Akira would do, to see Goro floundering in the depth of his own brain and come drag him out. For it to be Sakura of all people… Goro should push it away. He doesn’t. “The kid hit his head pretty hard.”

Dr. Takemi nods, the faint wisps of her smile disappearing. “Of course. He _is_ fine. His head didn’t take anything but minor cosmetic damage,” she says. So he’s alright. No head trauma. This is good, Goro.

_Stop panicking._

Sakura sighs. “Good deal,” His hand on Goro’s shoulder loosens, falling off enough to get Goro to look at him. “Think you can handle bringing him home?”

 _Stop fucking panicking_.

Goro must nod, because Sakura claps his back and turns around to the rest of them. “I have a shop to take care of, then. And some party decorations to take down,” he turns to the rest of the party, and motions. “I believe you lot ought to be good helpers.”

He stirs some commotion with that. Sakamoto is the most vehement of the voices, the one that leaves the crowd behind. “Are we seriously gonna trust _him_?”

Where the rest of the Phantom Thieves grow quiet at that, Goro barely falters. He gets it, see. A grudge is a hard thing to shake; it steeps in your bone marrow, leaving a legacy coursing in your veins long after the source has died away. And Sakamoto might think he’s number one in the Goro Hatemail Club, but nobody hates Goro more than Goro.

Sakura is the one who responds, though. “Nonsense,” he turns. His eyes have that glint in them, that stern _fatherly_ look Goro hates. “He’ll take care of him. Won’t you?”

Goro could punch him. Goro _should_ punch him. Goro instead puts on his most pleasant boy smile and says, “Leave it to me.”

Nobody hates Goro more than Goro. Truly.

But it works well enough. Sakura smiles to himself, nods, and gestures at the Thieves. They all gather themselves together, shuffling towards the door. Well, all except Sakamoto, that is, who glares at the floor in petulant defiance. Goro can relate.

A throat clears from behind him. Dr. Takemi’s eyes are an unfamiliar steel. She gestures. “Come along. I’ll take you back to your ‘other half.’”

☆☆☆

“So you know the good news,” she says when they reach the exam room, opening the door to reveal Goro’s bleary-eyed, red-cheeked boyfriend sitting on an exam table, pawing at his wiggling nose. Everything in Goro feels like it collapses in on itself all at once. He’s okay. He’s vertical and ventilating and _moving_ , and Goro suddenly wants to lie down on the floor, let the relief sweep him off his feet.

Or let the anxiety-induced rage that has been percolating since this whole thing started consume him. Whichever comes first.

“No concussion or anything. He’ll probably have a gnarly bruise or two,” as if to demonstrate, she lifts Akira’s bangs, revealing a familiar purpley mark on Akira’s skin, “but nothing that won’t heal. The bad news, though—”

Akira interrupts her with a very loud sneeze, tacking on a couple coughs at the end, for good measure. Dr. Takemi sucks her teeth, giving Akira a hard glare with which Goro deeply identifies.“He’s got a nasty flu,” she taps him on the head with her clipboard. “Very nasty. His fever hit 39.1.”

Goro doesn’t even know how to respond to that. _39.1 degrees._

“Any higher and I’d have forced him to go to a hospital,” she goes on, as if she doesn’t notice the way Goro’s heart just drops out onto the fucking floor. “But he’s taking well to ice and the fever reducer. He’ll be just fine, so long as he stays in bed like I’ve prescribed.”

“Hey,” and god, no, please, Goro does _not_ need to hear Akira’s voice right now. “I—” he clears his throat like it’ll have an effect, like it’ll take the gravel out of his deep unused voice. “I’m right here.”

“Yes, well,” Dr. Takemi doesn’t even look at him. “Your boyfriend seems more receptive to my instructions than you are.”

Akira pouts like the menace he is. “I listen.”

“If you had listened to me last week when I told you your immune system was weak and you needed to take it easy,” she says, “then maybe you wouldn’t have passed out like this, hm?”

Last week. He went to the doctor last week and didn’t do anything. Akira looks like he’s going to argue, but then his breath gets stuck, degenerating into hitchy sniffles. Dr. Takemi hands him a tissue in anticipation, while Goro wrings out his hands.

“I’ll be sure he—”

“ _AH-CHOO!”_

“—stays in bed, doctor,” Goro plasters on a smile, because it’s all he knows how to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next time: a lot of things boil over.
> 
> (also the chat names were all decided by futaba, and she refuses to let any of them change them back)


	3. iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goro doesn't respond. His face doesn't flush the usual rosy color it normally does, nor does he huff out something insulting—"stupid," usually is his choice, and Akira's never quite figured out if it was supposed to be directed at him or Goro himself. He doesn't even roll his eyes. He's... motionless, save for his fingers curling into fists at his sides, squeezing. Which is a bad sign. If Akira were a smarter man, he'd probably be filled with dread right now, but. All his thoughts exist trapped in a thick, syrupy haze that's descended on his brain. And maybe, even without the fever, he's a little stupid anyways.
> 
> "I'm glad," Goro says, through gritted teeth and woo boy. Okay. Akira's stupid, but he's not that stupid. 
> 
> He's in trouble.

Akira startles awake to two blankets: one of wool that smothers him, pinning his boneless arms to a strange couch that even by feel, he cannot recognize, and one of darkness, thick and insurmountable in its curtain over his unfamiliar surroundings. Where is he...? What happened? A thin sheen of sweat has attached itself to his skin, almost like a blanket in its own right. Akira nearly gags.

Instead, he’s overtaken by coughs for a second, head throbbing, and. Ah. Right. He passed out, didn’t he? Before, on his way to Leblanc. He’d been fighting a cold all day, and the cold hit him in the face with an uppercut and he fell flat on the pavement before he knew it. Everything after that was blurry with little bits of cognizance slapped in there.

_Arms wrap around him, strong and tight, and he remembers them, remembers these arms and their grip but can’t place them in the grander scheme of things. To whom they belong._

_”I’m fi—“_

_”Don’t.”_

They’d carried him to Takemi’s, and Takemi scolded him, and... he’d taken drugs at some point, because soon after that, his memory fades. Someone had picked him up and piggybacked him out of the clinic, back firm and soft and easy for Akira’s head to rest on, and they called... a taxi? He grabs around for his glasses on the side table, blinking rapidly as the world comes into focus.

Wait, didn’t they get on the subway? Or was that before? Akira presses a fist to his forehead, wincing from pain. Even the act of thinking just hurts, more so than usual.

They—boyfriend, Akira realizes, Takemi had said boyfriend, his boyfriend would be more likely to listen to her advice. Goro. Oh.

_I'll make sure he stays in bed, Doctor._

He—

“You’re up.”

Akira doesn’t whirl around, but he does startle, shoulders jumping up right next to his ears. Goro is standing in the kitchen, bathed in the orange glow of overhead oven light behind him. His hair is disheveled, ponytail long since disappeared. Tie pulled loose, top buttons undone. It’d be attractive if Goro’s eyes weren’t weighed down by bags. If he didn’t look laced so tight that he was on the verge of falling the fuck apart. Akira’s stomach roils.

Goro has two fingers looped through a coffee cup’s handle, small and dainty and white against the gloved digits. Nails from the hand acting as a makeshift saucer clink into the sides, tink-tinking a pattern on the glass. He’s looking at Akira expectantly, red eyes clouded by... something. Not quite rage. Not rumination. More... ah. The expectancy starts to shift into something like annoyance. Impatience. That at least Akira knows.

 _Where are we?_ Akira’s fingers shake trying to get out the words, and his lips curl in, annoyed. Keep it together, Kurusu.

“Oh, good, you really are awake,” Goro mumbles, setting down his cup behind him, and what exactly did _that_ mean? “We’re in my apartment.”

Goro is striding over to him, grabbing items off the table, but Akira’s brain is stuck several kilometers back. Apartment. Goro's apartment. In the time since Goro had come back, in the time since they'd been together even, Akira was never allowed to come here. Or well, it was more an unspoken rule, of sorts. Goro never invited him back here, and Akira never asked to come. Their place was either Leblanc or the attic. And sometimes the jazz club in Kichijoji.

The apartment itself is sparse. Clean. Everything is picture perfect, spotless. Too spotless. As if someone had just cleaned up a disaster and felt like they needed to leave the place better than how they found it. Akira's clothes are neatly arranged on the table—which wait. When did he...?

"I put you in some of my clothes," says Goro, assumedly off Akira's bewildered tugging at the white Featherman tee he's clad in. "You—uh—they seemed to be uncomfortable. Your clothes, I mean."

Akira squints. Are Goro's ears going pink at the tips? Akira smiles a little at that, despite the cotton in his brain. _I'm quite comfortable now,_ he leans back, arching up against the arm of the couch, even though it aches. It's supposed to be funny, honestly. Cute, even. Akira's always had a knack for being cute.

Goro doesn't respond. His face doesn't flush the usual rosy color it normally does, nor does he huff out something insulting—"stupid," usually is his choice, and Akira's never quite figured out if it was supposed to be directed at him or Goro himself. He doesn't even roll his eyes. He's... motionless, save for his fingers curling into fists at his sides, squeezing. Which is a bad sign. If Akira were a smarter man, he'd probably be filled with dread right now, but. All his thoughts exist trapped in a thick, syrupy haze that's descended on his brain. And maybe, even without the fever, he's a little stupid anyways.

"I'm glad," Goro says, through gritted teeth and woo boy. Okay. Akira's stupid, but he's not that stupid. He's in trouble.

He doesn't have time to ask about it. Goro's closing the gap between them, getting down on his knees (fun image), and then jamming a thermometer into Akira's mouth (much less fun, _ow_ ) before Akira can get a word out. When he takes it out after the beep, something hot burns behind Goro's eyes. "Still too high," he mumbles, lip snarling. "Stupid doctor doesn't know what the hell she's talking about."

 _Hey now_ , _don't be mean._ Akira tries to sit up again, but the movement causes black to dance in front of his eyes. _Tae has taken great care of me. Some things just take a little time. Have some patience, Detective-kun._

Something like light stumbles into Goro's gaze, but it dies almost instantly, shrouded in this festering pain that Akira recognizes all too well.

He sighs, something ugly clawing at his insides. He knows, okay? He knows Goro feels like, because Akira passed out, he's obligated to take care of him. And Goro spends way too much time trying to please others, spends way too much time on things he should just drop because he doesn't know how to leave well enough alone, and then stresses himself out in the process. It's a vicious cycle, and he just. Akira never wanted to be the reason Goro's brows furrowed like that, and here he is, becoming just that.

 _Look_ , Akira signs, his fingers shaking a little. _I know this is bad timing, and you're worried about a lot with work and school, so don't put me on your plate. I'll bounce back. Always do._ He punctuates it with a smile, as warm and wide as he can make it without inviting another coughing spell.

Goro looks... dumbfounded for a moment. He blinks. Then he processes. Akira's waiting for the relief to wash over his features, for the "breath he didn't know he was holding" or whatever to release and all the tension in the room to go with it. But it doesn't. Goro's brows only furrow _more_ if anything, something wild raging behind his eyes. They're red in this light, Akira notices. Deeply, hauntingly red.

"You... that's what you think this is about?" Goro says after a long moment. "You think I'm upset because it's inconvenient for _me_ that you got sick?"

Akira's eyes narrow. Well, what else would it be? _Yes?_ He signs.

And then the tension in the room _does_ release, but oh boy is there something... really unsettling about the whole affair. Goro guffaws, actually, throws his head back and lets laugh after laugh punch out of him, but there's no humor in it at all. When he finally stops, there's a smile on his lips for half a second before it sours, like he sucked on a lemon.

"God, you really are an idiot." he spits, bitter, eyes molten with fury.

Shit. So clearly Akira fucked that one up.

Goro's already getting his coat on, and while nothing is sitting right in his overheated brain, this image in particular burns Akira's insides. "Wait—" he says aloud, somehow, throat grating from the strain, but he doesn't care because he doesn't—this isn't—just hold _on_ , please, what did he do wrong—

"I'm getting groceries," Goro's voice is fading fast as he stomps further away, keys jangling in his hand. "I'll be out a while. Get comfortable."

☆☆☆

Akira takes getting comfortable to mean "don't move," so. He gets comfortable by fixating his eyes on the ceiling, and decidedly not on the door where the love of his life just stomped out. He tries not to think about it too much. The patterns on the ceiling are kind of cool. They swirl in and out, like the people doing it had a little fun as they went. He wonders what it would be like to trace the textured wall beneath his finger. Has Goro ever done that? Maybe he should ask, but Goro's not here now. Fully slammed the door behind him. Probably would not like a text. Is he coming back? Should Akira call? Or would that seem clingy?

Akira groans, clutching at his head as stabbing aches start flaring back up. The hardest part about being anxious with a fever is you can't tell if the nausea is from latent panic or from your immune system saying fuck you to your stomach contents. Akira may be sitting in Goro's apartment, but his emotions are on a ship in a storm, seesawing back and forth inside him like pathetic crew members stuck on deck. What had he done? What had he gotten wrong? What—

The apartment door smacks against Goro's dry wall so hard, Akira's sure there's a mark. Or a hole. Akira nearly falls off the couch. It's only been... Akira scrabbles around for his phone. Ten minutes?

"No, fuck you, you know what—" Goro's voice is so loud, dripping in flames, it echoes through the apartment. "I'm so tired of this roundabout _bullshit_ from you."

Goro is right in front of Akira again, pretty hair tousled from just one bout with the late autumn breeze. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are fire, and god, Akira would love to kiss him, which is a dumb thing to think when your partner looks at you like he wants to rake you over the coals, but, as we've been over, Akira is not smart.

Akira raises his hands to sign. _I—_

 _"NO._ " Goro says, loud and firm. "Don't— _I'm_ talking now. You actually, genuinely think that the reason I'm this upset is because of a fucking _test_? Because this could be inconvenient for me? Fuck off; what kind of selfish person do you take me for? I—yes I have my opportunities, I know, but I am not so awful a boyfriend that what I would take from you getting sick is how unfortunate that would be for my personal circumstances. For fuck's sake," Goro runs a hand through his hair, only furthering the frizz as he grabs hold of a fist full, "if that's the kind of person you think I am, why are you even with me?"

Aren't all people are like that? Akira's mind automatically supplies, but something tells him that would be an unwelcome addition to the conversation. And Goro is not finished.

"The reason I'm upset, Akira, is because you've been sick for the past fucking _week_ —or really, the whole month, because don't think I'm stupid, don't think I haven't noticed all those 'allergy' episodes you've been having since October started—but you won't tell me about it," Goro's eyes flash wildly, like they're back in the metaverse again and Akira's a particularly difficult shadow. "You won't tell anyone about it! Not me, not your so-called best friends the Phantom Thieves, no one. Instead, you're willing to haul yourself around for everybody else until you're past the point of exhaustion. You could have _died_."

Akira's eye twitches at that. _I know how to take care of myself, thanks._

"Really?" Goro is thick with venom. "You ate shit on the concrete; that doesn't look very healthy to me."

_It was a long day, alright? Excuse me for not sticking the landing when I lost consciousness. I did the best I could._

"Oh my god, you seriously don't get it, do you? I'm not mad at you for passing out; I'm mad at you for being out and about in the first place when you had a 39.1 degree fever. Did you hear what Doctor Takemi said? Any higher and you should have been in the hospital*.*"

_It wasn't higher, though. She also said if I took the fever reducers and slept, I'd be fine._

"Well, you've done both of those things, and you still have a fever, so."

This is fucking ridiculous. _I don't know what you want me to say, Goro. People get sick sometimes._

That must tear something in Goro because his voice goes from raised to shout. "MOST PEOPLE TALK TO THEIR SIGNIFICANT OTHERS ABOUT IT, THOUGH."

The booming echo of his voice in the apartment stuns even Goro himself into silence. The hair on the back of Akira's neck raises, goosebumps spreading all over him. Goro's fists, now back at his sides, clench, his shoulders tense. "You're the most insufferable, mistrusting asshole on this godforsaken planet, and it is absolute _hell_ to be with you because I am constantly playing motherfucking guessing games about you and your well-being," Goro says it with such rueful spite, the ache in his voice bites at Akira more than the words themselves do. "You don't tell anyone anything. Not about your feelings. Not about what you're going through. Fuck, not even your birthday. You know I had to find out from _Futaba_ when you were born just so we could throw that stupid party together?" Goro's eyes roll after that, probably off Akira's dumbstruck look.

_Birthday? What—_

"Yes, stupid. This whole weekend you were so hellbent on saving was a surprise for you," Goro crosses his arms over his chest. "When Ann and I discovered that we'd never once celebrated your birthday, your precious Phantom Thieves and I decided to team up and throw a surprise party in your honor."

Akira's head is in molasses. Birthday. They did all this... to celebrate his birthday? Why. _Why?_

"What do you mean, 'why?'" Goro looks away for the first time since he came back, the wall beside him suddenly becoming very interesting, it seems. "Do I really have to spell that out for you?"

Yes, Akira wants to say, wishes he could snarl out loud, almost. He's always been the person things happen _to_ in the world; a conduit for others to dump their thoughts and desires and wishes into so their load might be a little lighter when all was said and done. Celebrating his existence was like celebrating a functioning toilet. That's why the parties stopped when he was eight. "Being alive isn't remarkable."

Goro's eyes widen. "Pardon?"

Oops. Guess he said that one out loud. "It's not. Being alive is just a thing that we are. Why celebrate it?"

"No, no," Goro's shaking his head, "No, you _insisted_ we celebrate my birthday when it was my turn, despite my many protests, so it's not about birthdays in general—you're saying yours doesn't matter. _You_ being alive isn't remarkable."

It's not a question, so Akira doesn't treat it like one. He's tired. The banging in his head has only gotten louder with all the yelling. Besides, it's not like Goro's wrong. He averts his eyes. _So what if I am_?

That earns him silence. A nasty part of him thinks it's blissful. The rest of him kind of wants to throw up. Again.

"You do realize how fucked up that is, right?"

Akira shrugs. _Since when were you the paragon of mental health?_

More silence. Then a sigh. Footsteps approaching. Goro collapses beside Akira on the couch. Or rather, he sinks onto the edge of one of the cushions, deflated. A balloon lost of all its air, forlorn in the wind.

"This is what I'm talking about. I should know about this," Goro's looking at his own hands, tracing his fingers over the palms. "I _want_ to know about this. You might not think your life matters, but it does to a lot of people. To." His breath catches, his teeth gritting so hard, Akira's sure his jaw must be sore. "To me."

Akira's heart flutters at that, in the same moment his head throbs. Maybe that's why speaking comes more naturally. "It's just a birthday. It doesn't mean anything."

"Is it, though?"

It is. Akira nods. It's just a day. For everyone else, yeah, of course it's something to get excited for. But for him, it's a Saturday or Sunday or whatever day in October it happens to fall on that comes and goes without fanfare. He's spent a god damn decade convincing himself of that, and he's not about to undo all that now.

"Like how this is just a little cold then, right?" Goro leans over, swipes his finger across Akira's forehead, mostly gentle but with enough edge that Akira _feels_ it. "Like how this is just a bruise? You know that's bullshit, Akira."

Exhaustion washes over him again, only this time, it's flavored with something irritating. Akira has to spit it out. "Okay, so what if it is? What do you want me to do about it?"

"Well, personally I'd like you to stop hanging yourself on the fucking cross for every person you meet," Goro says, dry, "but we both know that wish is a pipe dream at this point. Instead, I just. Will you please lean on me _a little_? I don't expect you to come to me for every single one of your problems, but stuff like this? When you're sick or hurt. Isn't it my job to be here for you then?"

Akira snorts. Words, it seems, are still on the table. "We're not married, Goro."

"So what? I love you all the same."

Hm. Okay, then. Akira didn't think the flu made your heart stop, but there's a first time for everything.

Love. Holy shit. They—it's. Akira's known for years that he was in love with Goro. It took... maybe a month to realize that the magnetism between them was more than just some crush. Crushes don't wish so hard people come back from the dead, and all. But he had always thought he would be the one to say it first, if Goro even reciprocrated, always thought he would be the one to—to— _why_ would he even love someone like—

Goro, it turns out, is just as surprised by his confession as Akira. "Forget I said that," he snaps, and then his eyes widen some more. "Wait, no, I mean—fuck—"

Akira can't help it; he laughs, even though it's a stupid idea, even though it dissolves into a coughing fit. Goro is so cute. Goro loves him. Even if it's just a slip of the tongue, something he doesn't really mean, Akira at least takes up some of Goro's brain space. And that's worth something, isn't it?

He plants his very red face in his hands. "God dammit," his words are all muffled by the skin. He scrubs down his cheeks with his palms. "This was supposed to go very differently."

"Oh?" Akira's still giggle-coughing, wheezing to catch his breath. "Didn't expect laying into me to produce such passion?"

"No, you moron—" Goro lets out a long-suffering sigh. "At the very least I was hoping to have taken you to dinner before I said something like _that_."

The last of Akira's giggles die. "Huh?"

Goro raises an eyebrow. "What, you think my first love confession wouldn't have had any planning behind it? Don't you know me at all?" When Akira doesn't answer, just remains stock still, the realization must dawn on Goro. His expression softens—and crumples a little. "You don't think I feel that way about you."

Again, not a question. Akira finds his lap to be quite interesting until suddenly there are gloved hands cupping his face, tipping it up and up. Goro's eyes are so red in this light. They look at him like he's precious and important and he just. He doesn't deserve to be looked at like that. Not when he's really just an empty vessel, waiting to be filled. There is nothing under here for you to love. Nothing worth finding. It's all just masks.

Before Akira really has a handle on what's happening, Goro's lips are on his. Warm, firm pressure against him where's pliant and somehow waiting, even though he had no idea this was coming. When Goro coaxes his jaw to release, to let him explore, Akira can't help it, can't help but let him have the access, can't help but let him have everything. It's wrong, really. For so many reasons. The biggest one being that Akira has the flu, and if Goro wasn't already going to get it just from being in the same room as Akira, he's certainly going to get it now. He should stop him. Goro's fingers trace Akira's jaw up to his ears, finding the tips and rubbing just the way Akira likes. He mewls.

Akira should _really_ stop him. And yet.

When Goro finally pulls away, they're both panting. Akira's brain is covered in a fog that's much more pleasant than the one the fever's dropped on him. He wobbles, shivering from the loss of Goro's warmth. Goro actually, still rubbing Akira's ears, smiles. It's crooked and dimpled and shows off too much of his teeth. It's beautiful. "You really are an idiot."

 _Huh_. Akira signs, feeling his throat clamming up again. _I wonder where I've heard that before._

Goro shakes his head. His expression goes solemn again after a moment, but there's something fiery behind it. He meets Akira's gaze head on somehow, emboldened. "I want to know everything about you. I always have, but especially now. You can't hide things from me because you're worried that it'll worry me. I'm already worried about it preemptively anyways. Not telling me only turns it into guesswork, rather than knowledge, and I find that so much worse."

Akira swallows, nodding. His head feels like it's stuffed with cotton. The ear rubbing feels so good, it's starting to put him to sleep.

"I know that's... easier said than done, but," Goro sighs, "just promise me you'll try?"

Try. Akira had said that to Goro once, a long time ago. We still have a deal, Akira had said desperately through the bulkhead's cruel steel. Goro's laugh had been so moist back then, muffled by all the layers between them. I don't think I'll be good for it, Kurusu-kun. I think we'll have to call it a draw for now.

Just promise me you'll try, Akira had said. Promise me.

He nods some more, unable to speak or raise his hands in assent. His arms feel heavy. So do his eyes. Goro lets out another laugh at that.

"Okay, I get it," Goro gently coaxes Akira down into a more comfortable position. "Sweet dreams."

☆☆☆

Akira's favorite fantasy opens like this: interior, a warm apartment building, evening. The light in the room drenches him in a heat and security that he hasn't felt in years—maybe hasn't felt ever, actually, because when was the last time he could keep his eyes closed without feeling inexplicable dread? When was the first time? Ma always told him sleep was a useless endeavor, a necessary evil for a productive life.

Ma. Wow. He hasn't thought about her in a long time. Not since...

_Everything has a price, Akira._

No, wait—the fantasy. Right. Fade in on Akira, lying stock still on a couch that is somehow lump-free, head resting on soft pillows that must be made of down or something, because they squish to conform to his head shape, but they have enough structure still to cradle him. A fun feeling, that. Being held.

It's perfect. At least, it would be, if he didn't feel like he was burning alive.

Akira curls in on himself and a pillow he's got trapped in his arms as another fit wracks his shaking body, his eyes squeezing shut involuntarily. Cough, cough, cough, the sounds grate against his ear drums, his brain ping-ponging around his skull again, and yes, he's been saying that to himself since 5AM, but how else do you describe the feeling of black dots dancing over your vision every time your lungs spasm?

There's a hand on his face, suddenly. So cold against his forehead, he groans. Akira's fingers wrap around the wrist to which the hand is attached. Stay, he wants to say, if he could make his mouth work. If his vocal cords could produce sound like they're supposed to, but. Nothing about him ever worked quite right, did it? Did it, Ma?

_She sat me down and taught me what the world was like at five. I had cried and cried in want of... something. I don't remember what it was now. Something inconsequential. Something warm. I wanted—no, I didn't want. I don't remember. I don't know._

_That's the way life works. Everything has a price._

"You're still so warm," murmurs a low, quiet voice, sweet in its tenor. Familiar. It wraps around Akira's ears like a blanket. "Akira?"

Akira shivers, not knowing why. Maybe it's the heat taking over his brain. Maybe it's his own name. Nobody says it like that, like it's a treasure. Which is weird, actually. Who's talking to him right now? He cracks open an eye, but the world is a blurry array of soothing color. Wisps of chestnut frame two roses, and then brilliant plains of green come beneath it. It's beautiful. Does the hand belong to this kaleidoscope? He clutches it closer on reflex.

"I need this hand, you know," says the voice. Akira shakes his head, like a dog, and it hurts his neck and head, ache spreading everywhere but—but no, please. Please stay. Mom, I—wait. _Wait. Where am I going? Ma?_

_You'll figure it out, kiddo._

_Everything has a price._

"You don't want me to go?"

Akira shakes again, but a little smaller. The green— _emerald_ , Akira thinks, _it was like emeralds earlier (?)_ —bounces a little, trembling. Melodies dance in the air, so effervescent and smooth as they slide down Akira's throat (??). Then it leans, and the chestnut and the roses get closer and closer, the roses shrinking to buds and disappearing entirely, chestnut tickling his cheeks and nose. Something presses against the crown of his head, right in his hairline, pushing up the bangs. Something wet. Something warm.

"Okay," the voice breathes, and it's so close, it crawls into Akira's ear canal, makes a home inside him (???). "I've got you."

Well, Ma. Guess you're wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOO! AH IT'S FINISHED! FUCK! JESUS CHRIST
> 
> sorry this took me so long but man did this fic. go in some directions. you know when i started this it was just supposed to be a classic fluff sick fic and wouldn't you know, i sure am. incapable of writing that huh. wowie. 
> 
> this became such a fascinating rumination on these characters, and quite frankly, i think it's not. my best work. but i do really hope you enjoyed the ride! i hope it was fun. 
> 
> it is quite possible that in the future i'll write an epilogue of sorts for this that's just all the fluffy shit that i was intending to write but then didn't do because these two being //vague hand gestures// like this is what happened first. but for now, i have a long fic project that i'm excited and motivated to work on! :) hopefully you'll enjoy it.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading!! <3 <3 if you wanna yell at me about shuakes/akeshus, i'm on tumblr @vintgecassette.


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